Love Me Tonight. Gwynne Forster

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      “He’s in a better mood. He even watched the baseball game until the Red Sox started knocking home runs. Don’t you worry, Heather. You know I take good care of your father.”

      Heather smiled to herself. Annie had worked for the Tatum family since Heather was ten years old and had remained with them after Heather’s mother had run off. She’d often wished her father would have married Annie, who clearly adored him.

      “I know you do,” she said. “I have a morning flight to Cairo, but I’ll see you when I get back.”

      “I’ll be here.”

      She hung up and began mentally sorting out last-minute details for her trip. She didn’t believe in leaving anything to chance.

      Heather walked into her room at the Ramses Hilton Hotel in Cairo shortly after noon that Sunday and looked around. As she always did, she tested the hotel bed for firmness. Satisfied, she went to the window and looked out. In the distance, she could see the great Giza pyramids west of the Nile and what looked like miles of sand. What a different world from Baltimore.

      As she began to unpack, she glimpsed a large bouquet of calla lilies in a vase painted with the likeness of Queen Nefertiti. She adored calla lilies and had decided that if she married, she would carry them as her wedding bouquet. She made a note to thank the hotel management. She used the phone in her room to check in with the U.S. embassy in Cairo. Then she hung up her clothes and took a shower. From the time she departed from the Baltimore-Washington Thurgood Marshall International Airport until she walked into her room at the Hilton, eighteen tiring hours had elapsed. She ordered a sandwich and a pot of tea from room service and turned on the television.

      When her sandwich arrived, she tipped the waiter, then got in bed and watched the news while she ate and drank her tea. Weariness caught up with her. She turned off the television, and when she put her head on the pillow, she noticed a note against the side of the vase and jumped out of bed to open it. She read:

      Dear Heather,

      I wish you a safe, pleasant and fruitful mission.

      Judson Philips

      How on earth? What a resourceful man. And what a thoughtful one. She must have made an impact on him, as well. She smiled as she happily fell asleep.

      She arose early the next morning, refreshed and ready for work. As she always did when in an Islamic country, she wore a white pantsuit—white was inoffensive and was appropriate for every occasion—with a pale yellow, sleeveless blouse and white shoes. She deferred to local customs to the extent that she could without compromising her values, but she refused to cover her hair or give up her three-inch heels. If anybody objected to her height, it was their problem. She loved her five-foot-eight-and-a-half-inch height, and she loved high heels.

      Having made certain that she got to the conference room in time to check out the seating arrangements and have them changed if they didn’t follow protocol, she sat in the place assigned to her and took out her notes and tape recorder. She wondered how many of those present truly cared about the suffering of children in Sudan, which was the subject of the conference.

      The discussions got off to a slow start, and shortly after the coffee break, she felt a hand on her thigh. Shocked, she turned around to look at the man.

      “Your husband is a fool to let you out of his sight,” he said with a practiced smile, looking certain that he’d complimented her.

      She stared at him. “How do you think these delegates will react when I slap your face?”

      “Surely, you don’t mean that,” he said, his smile still in place. “Your country and mine are on good terms.”

      Her expression didn’t waver. “Remove your hand. One…two…”

      He removed his hand. “I don’t know how the American men call themselves men.”

      Heather ignored the taunt, for she was accustomed to the attitudes of men from certain developing countries. At five minutes past twelve, she got her chance to address the group, and at the end of her prepared statement, she added her views on the way in which some delegates wasted opportunities to make a difference in the lives of disadvantaged children.

      Later, after congratulations on her talk, Mr. Taliah, one of the delegates, asked, “Would you join my wife and me for dinner in our suite this evening? My wife doesn’t go out because she isn’t in purdah. She’s a modern woman and she hates the snide remarks that she gets.” Heather agreed; she knew Mr. Taliah and knew he was married.

      However, the minute Heather walked into the room that night, she knew the man had lied. It wasn’t a suite, but a room like her own. She realized the delegate intended a seduction. Without a word, she whirled around and walked out.

      Back in her room, she had to admit that the calla lilies lifted her spirits, reminding her Judson Philips admired her as a person.

      I must remember to send him a note of thanks, she thought to herself. He went to a lot of trouble and great expense to send me these flowers. They’re still so beautiful. She threw her briefcase on the bed and heaved a long and heavy sigh. She lived a life that most people would not consider normal. At times, neither did she. In her mind she saw Judson Philips’s handsome face, remembered his gracious manner and wondered if he could fill the awful void in her life. But after what she’d seen of her parents’ bitter and loveless marriage, she doubted the wisdom of letting herself care for any man.

      “Would you like me to request an apology from Mr. Taliah?” the chief of protocol asked her the next morning when she related the incident from the previous night as she was required to do.

      “Of course not,” she said. “It goes with the job.”

      She’d made light of it, but she would be glad to set foot in Baltimore that Tuesday afternoon. She liked Egypt, especially the Egyptians—who welcomed her as a sister—but she had little use for pompous diplomats who went to these conferences merely to exploit their status.

      Her mission finished, she took one last whiff of the calla lilies in her room and—a smile on her face—made her way to the airport, home and dreams of Judson Philips.

      She walked into her office Wednesday morning, locked her briefcase in her desk drawer and went to Scott’s office. “Hi,” he said when she walked in after one knock. “How’d it go?”

      “Same old, same old. Great ideas, an excellent report that will be widely circulated and nothing substantial will change,” she complained.

      “Good grief, Heather. You’re becoming so cynical.”

      “Not really. But I see the same guys at every one of these meetings, and it seems they get less courteous every time. Now, you! How did Judson Philips know I was at the Hilton in Cairo?”

      “I know both of you, and I wouldn’t introduce either of you to just anybody. What happened? Didn’t you like him? He needs some cheering up, and so do you.”

      “He sent me two dozen of the most beautiful calla lilies I ever saw. How would he know that calla lilies are my favorite flower? You don’t even know that.”

      Scott leaned back in his swivel desk chair and rocked. “I said, didn’t you like him?”

      “Don’t СКАЧАТЬ